


Root Cause Analysis

by esteefee



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Episode: s02e02 Bad Code, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-11
Updated: 2012-10-11
Packaged: 2017-11-16 03:01:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/534758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteefee/pseuds/esteefee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Episode coda. Harold does some root cause analysis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Root Cause Analysis

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Speranza](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Speranza/gifts).



> ...my favorite pimp.

Harold was somewhat embarrassed to find the ground unsteady under his feet as Reese guided him out of the train station. A side-effect, Harold suspected, of the drug Root had given him. He explained quickly, lest Reese think he were injured or some such nonsense, that Root had sedated him to make him amenable.

"Looks like she was wrong about that," Reese said mildly, and Harold turned far enough to determine that, yes, the corner of Reese's mouth was curled up just slightly, though the arm around Harold's shoulders felt like a steel band. 

"You'll have to explain how you managed to find me, Mr. Reese," Harold said once he was tucked in the passenger seat of an abysmal rental. He folded his hands in his lap to avoid contact with the upholstery. "I really didn't intend for you to come after me."

Reese pressed his lips together and started up the car. "That wasn't the contingency?" He passed his phone over to Harold. "Here. The pilot is on stand-by. Her name is Captain Morris."

Harold took note of Reese's tone and made the call, somewhat dismayed to hear his tongue sliding into the drawl of his upbringing. He tried for more crispness as he conveyed, "She says it will take around four hours to prepare for flight, Mr. Reese."

"You hungry?"

"Not particularly."

"Then let's get a hotel room. I want us out of sight."

Reese made one inexplicable stop at a Wal-Mart along the way, but was visible through the window the entire time. Harold was almost appalled by his relief at still being able to see that stark black and white figure, face always turned alertly toward Harold as he went about his business. 

"Here," Reese said, dropping a bag on Harold's lap as he re-entered the car.

"Oh, you must be joking," Harold said, examining the contents.

"Nope. No telling what she's planted on you, Finch. We'll get you changed before we go to the hotel."

"This is...a polyester blend of some kind," Harold said, voice rising in distaste.

Reese said nothing, but his cheeks tightened in humor as he put the car in drive.

"A revenge, I suppose, for discommoding you these past few days," Harold joked.

Reese's amusement disappeared. Harold noticed how tightly Reese was gripping the steering wheel, and carefully said nothing further. They drove in silence for some blocks before Reese finally spoke.

"I suppose I deserve that for letting her get her hands on you."

"Mr. Reese—"

"You can write me up later if you want. Once we're clear."

Reese pulled over at a gas station, and Harold was spared from having to reply as he proceeded with the task of extricating himself from the car and changing into the ensemble Reese had selected for him. As he passed each item over he heard Reese drowning it in the sink, and silently mourned his silk boxers, his bespoke Chad Wadhwani pinstripe and his customized Prada cap toe Oxfords, exchanging them for—for pity's sake—Fruit of the Loom boxer briefs, a T-shirt and gangster-style tracksuit, and a pair of Dr. Scholl's sneakers.

If he didn't know better, he'd think Reese were mocking him.

"This had better be worth it, Mr. Reese."

"This from the guy who has a firewall on his phone."

"Shouldn't everyone?" Gingerly, Harold stepped out of the stall. The effects of the tranquilizer seemed to have worn off, and he no longer needed to risk touching any possibly germ-ridden surfaces in order to keep his balance. "Well?" he queried, lifting his arms. "Now that we are bug-free, I presume we're safe to proceed."

Reese stared at him a long moment, an undecipherable expression on his face. Then his lips quirked up in a flash of a smile. "Good to go."

It was almost worth the itch of polyester.

:::

Reese drove them to a nondescript motel about twenty minutes away and left the engine running with the doors locked while he stepped inside the office to get them a room. He left a sidearm on the front seat beside Harold's left hand—intentional, surely—and Harold let himself be subtly reassured, though he held no illusions he could do anything to protect himself against her should she appear and make a determined effort of recapturing him.

His best weapon had always been his mind. That, and his asset, whom he considered an extension of his mind—yet he really hadn't imagined Reese would avail him this time. He really had to get the whole story from Reese.

In due time.

There was a tap on the window, startling him. It was Reese, of course, and he was annoyed. Harold could tell by the slight pinching of the corner of his eyes, and hastened to unlock the doors.

"Way to stay alert there, Finch."

Harold didn't respond, just let Reese take them to their hideaway, unsurprised to find it was a corner room, conveniently located to a T-junction and allowing them multiple exit routes.

"St. Mary's County Airport is about five minutes away," Reese said, pulling a bag from the trunk and then hustling him into the room before shutting the door and yanking both sets of curtains shut. "We've got about three hours to kill." He dropped his bag on the bed then strode off to check the bathroom.

Harold pulled out the desk chair and sat down, feeling at a loss. 

Reese came back in and took a seat across from him on the floral-patterned bedspread. He leaned forward, his hands resting on his thighs. "All right. Tell me."

"Tell you what, Mr. Reese?"

"Everything."

Harold gaped for a moment, feeling quite the fish, and then was struck by an array of images—Alicia's ghastly murder; Denton Weeks hanging from the ropes making those agonized noises; and Root's terrifying brutality and her endless, illogical maundering, uttered in such dulcet and reasonable tones while he quailed in horror.

His breath caught and he suddenly felt unable to make a single sound.

"Finch." Reese slid off the bed to crouch before him and rest his hands on Harold's knees. "Harold," he said. "Listen."

Harold squeezed his eyes shut.

Reese's voice rose slightly. "Did I tell you I made a new friend while you were gone?"

Harold opened his eyes. "No, you did not. That's hardly—"

"His name is Bear. Can't wait for you to meet him."

"Meet him? _Meet_ him?"

"Oh, he won't tell anyone. Trust me—he's the discreet type."

Harold tried to express his sheer outrage with his demeanor, lacking the energy to do otherwise. Unfortunately, Reese seemed unaffected and merely blinked slowly at him, his hands dropping from Harold's knees. Harold took advantage of the opening.

"You never did say, you know—how you happened to locate me. Root—" Harold's throat caught, "was terribly annoyed at you. She derided your abilities."

John, Harold noted with bewildering fondness, seemed to find that entertaining rather than off-putting. "Did she? Well, she's probably right about that. It was Carter who did most of the work. And even Fusco helped out." 

"That won't do, Mr. Reese. I'll need details." Because here was the meat of it—the contingency had been in place. Harold had trusted in Reese's intelligence, and in the Machine to perceive the need and adapt to the changed circumstances, but beyond all probability, here they both were, alive and unharmed.

Yet where did that leave the Irrelevants in both their absences?

"You were supposed to take care of things," Harold said. "I hate to say I'm disappointed under these circumstances, but I did hope you would be able to pick up where I left off, John."

Reese pushed to his feet in a swift, almost angry move, and went to the door, belatedly veering to the window to peer between the curtains before dropping them back into place. 

"I took care of the Irrelevant. He's probably on a plane to Cabo San Lucas by now."

Harold felt a rush of warmth. "Then it worked. And you—you figured out the code," he continued, somewhat wondering, not that he hadn't had faith in John's abilities, per se. But he must have done it quite rapidly. "How remarkable."

"Why, thank you, Harold," Reese said dryly.

"Oh, but it hasn't been two days, and you found the Irrelevant and helped him, I suppose—"

"For what he was worth."

"We don't judge," Harold said. "But how did you manage to do all that while still trying to find me?"

Reese turned finally, and regarded him. "I took Leon along with me. It was the buddy system." Reese's mouth quirked strangely. There was a history there, burning in Reese's eyes, his cheekbones glinting like razors beneath, and Harold trod carefully with his next question.

"You said Carter and Fusco helped?"

Reese nodded sharply, gaze breaking as he leaned against the wall.

"But how did you know where to begin to look? I flatter myself I'm the programmer among us."

Reese turned away. "I had other help."

A chill wended down Harold's spine. "Not Elias."

Reese merely snorted his response. 

"Then, who?"

"It was pretty funny, actually." Reese gave him an ironic smile. "I got used to people looking at me strangely when I was living on the streets, but it's a whole new level when they catch you standing on the corner arguing with a traffic camera."

Remarkable. Apparently John was more resourceful than Harold realized. But the implication was terrible, just terrible. "You spoke to the Machine?"

"Yeah. I gave it an ultimatum."

Oh, this was catastrophic. "John, please don't say you—please tell me the Machine didn't intervene on my behalf." The consequences—that the machine was corruptible in such a manner, remotely, by an outside party—were unthinkable.

John had leaned back against the wall and was considering him thoughtfully. "Not really. All it did was give me another Irrelevant. It just happened to be a twenty year-old Irrelevant, the one that made Root who she is."

Harold sagged in relief. The Machine had found a loophole of a sort. Acceptable, perhaps.

"Who was the Irrelevant?"

"A girl named Hanna Frey, abducted and killed by a sexual predator. Her best friend, Samantha Groves, observed the abduction and tried to report it, but none of the adults would believe her. The guy was too respected in the community."

"Samantha Groves."

Reeves nodded. "Root."

"You found her root cause," Harold mused. "She mocked me, you know, when I posited a youthful trauma."

"Everybody needs a purpose," Reese said strangely, and Harold lifted his head. 

"Yes, they do." Harold leaned forward. "Tell me, what was this ultimatum you delivered?"

Reese's eyes flickered upward, a smile tugging at his lips. "I think you already know that, Finch."

"But the contingency was in place for exactly this reason—" The slam of Reese palm against the wall interrupted him.

"Not this reason. Not when I knew you were out there." Reese blew out a breath. "Don't make me say what we both already know."

No, no, Harold supposed that was unnecessary, and unkind, as well, with John standing over him with barely contained fury, his eyes dark with exhaustion and regret and relief.

"I'll take that into account in future, Mr. Reese," Harold said, as sedately as he could considering the pounding of his heart.

"That's good to hear," John said, voice returned to its usual, soft tones. The voice Harold heard in his ear most days, all day, embedded in his neocortex.

Reese pushed away from the wall and tugged off his suit jacket, then handed him a pair of phones, so new the scratch films were still on. "Here," he said, "set these up while I get cleaned up."

Though he felt like a child being sidelined with a toy, Harold appreciated the distraction, as he found it hard to ignore the sounds coming from the bathroom—the thump of clothing hitting the floor and the shower starting up. His mind conveyed to him images all too easy to see in perfect detail, each scar placed in exacting precision and the cause of each from dry reports.

He had finished configuring the phones with added security and was endeavoring to stretch his stiff neck when John exited the bathroom, bare-chested but clad in suit pants, just drawing a brilliantly white dress shirt over his shoulders. 

Harold let his eyes be caught by the lean flex of pectoral and abdominal muscles and the healing scar there. John paused in the act of buttoning his shirt, his fingers near his sternum. 

Harold finally looked up. He cleared his throat.

"I was just wondering—who is your dry cleaner? They do a marvelous job with your shirts."

John's smile came slowly, but it showed teeth. "That's kind of a personal question, Harold."

"I suppose it is, isn't it?"

John's smile lingered. Harold noted the edges of his shirt were moving jaggedly with his breath.

"But I'm still interested," Harold said doggedly, feeling heat prickle along his neck at the confession.

"I'll take that into account," John echoed his earlier words, and deliberately began to unbuttoned his shirt again, his eyes on Harold's the entire time. The shirt slipped from John's tanned shoulders as he stepped forward.

Root cause, Harold thought, and he reached out to take John's hand. Harold supposed he should thank her.

If John didn't shoot her, first.

 

_End._


End file.
